Chapter 87
Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: The Most Absurd Coup in Alliance History
This might just be the most absurd mutiny in Alliance history. As the military nerve center tasked with defending the nation, the Ministry of Defense had turned its sharp blades on its own government offices. Under the personal command of the Alliance Marshal himself, they stormed the Congress Building like a band of ruthless bandits. The congressional staff who had been exchanging friendly smiles with officers just yesterday were now reduced to prisoners of war. Unbelievable shrieks and sobs echoed throughout the entire structure.
The Ministry troops charged forth like wolves bursting from their pens, turning the grand hall into a battlefield as they swiftly overpowered the reinforcements from the Military Police. They gunned down nine soldiers who resisted violently, along with Captain Patrick, then split into ten squads. Covered by heavy firepower, they burst in from multiple directions, sealing off the building's command hub.
But at that very moment, the Congress Building's red alert system activated. Piercing alarms blared through the structure as security robots poured out in force.
"Marshal, Kareyan! XM109 flying gun platforms advancing on your position!" Abel leaped down a hover ladder amid crisscrossing fire, roaring through a storm of shattered glass:
"—Two hundred security bots chasing us from below, watch out—!!"
At the same time, on the other side of the building, Celia pressed his earpiece and barked,
"Gryphon!"
A flash of crimson-gold arced from his earlobe, transforming mid-air into a single-man shoulder-fired rocket launcher that settled heavily on his shoulder. The next instant, an XM109 flying gun platform smashed through the wall, unleashing a hail of bullets. The moment it came into view, the rocket launcher beeped and swiveled to lock on.
—BOOM!
The rocket streaked down the corridor trailing white smoke, blasting the XM109 into a fireball!
"Charge, charge, charge!! All squads, assault the command center's red gate! Go!!" Kareyan vaulted over the shattered doorframe, shoving the last assault trooper into the smoke-filled corridor before charging in himself. Suddenly, a man in a security uniform burst from a blind corner, hurling a grenade at them. Kareyan slammed the soldier beside him to the ground:
"Down—!!"
The grenade detonated with a thunderous roar, showering them with glass shards, metal, and chunks of masonry like a torrent of rain. Kareyan wiped his face and stood, spotting the man turning to flee. He raised his pistol and dropped him with a single shot, then bellowed:
"Squads, report casualties!"
"K1, one light wound!"
"K3, zero casualties!"
"K2, one light wound!"
Static crackled over the comms for several seconds before Kareyan demanded,
"K4? K4, respond!"
"Report! K4 squad leader critically wounded, requesting emergency medical!"
"Damn it, no medics! Inject a blood booster!" Kareyan cursed, glancing at the twitching guard on the ground. He dragged him to the shattered metal wall, secured him with electromagnetic cuffs, and kicked him hard enough to make him cough up blood.
"Kareyan," Celia's voice came over the earpiece.
"I swear to—" Kareyan tossed a blood booster onto the prisoner in exasperation, then roared:
"K2 vanguard, scout and cover! Target: command center red gate. All squads, full speed ahead!"
Twenty minutes into the blitzkrieg, most of the security robots lay in ruins, and General Abel had seized the control centers on floors one through five. At 26 minutes and 48 seconds, General Mo Wen's reinforcements smashed the guard system's external distress beacons. At 33 minutes and 24 seconds, Kareyan led fifty suicide squad members in breaching the central control room, prying open a 7.5-meter gap in the rooftop anti-air defenses...
7.5 meters wasn't even wide enough for an armed helicopter, but it was a crucial signal: the impregnable Congress Building had finally been breached from within.
Thirty-nine minutes after the Congress Building came under assault, word reached the parliamentary tribunal. The chamber erupted in chaos.
Until then, everyone had been certain Celia would show up obediently for trial and meekly accept whatever decision Parliament rendered—as long as it came from a democratic vote. After all, over centuries, Celia's style had been etched into memory. He was that kind of man, unshakably faithful to the Alliance system until death.
But this time, he had defied all expectations—he'd turned on them. And not just turned; he'd done so completely. Like a landmine detonating without warning, the blast was earth-shattering. In a mere thirty-nine minutes, the entire Alliance government plunged into chaos and uncertainty.
After a brief pandemonium, the tribunal declared a wartime committee, invoking election statutes to emergency-remove Speaker Marcus. Douglas Konsetlin was hastily appointed acting speaker amid the artillery fire. His first order upon swearing in: launch electromagnetic missiles skyward—
But it was all too late.
One hour and twenty-five minutes into the mutiny, the Radiant Legion's 702nd Division First Assault Team arrived from the capital garrison. Eight heavily armed airships assembled overhead. Enemy and friendly forces clashed in fierce electromagnetic barrages, jamming all comms channels completely.
Twenty minutes later, the brutal beachhead assault concluded.
The assault team carved a path with blood and flesh, obliterating the rooftop anti-air defenses. That 7.5-meter gap was blasted into a massive chasm. The Radiant Legion's 702nd Division stormed in from above, sweeping downward to link up with General Abel, General Mo Wen, and the others below.
With that, the mutiny ended. Parliament's cause was lost.
For the first time, the Ministry of Defense claimed the Congress Building—the ultimate symbol of Alliance power—as its own.
·
Celia stood before the heavy paulownia doors of the tribunal hall, his gaze calmly fixed on the ornate brass handles.
Kareyan and over forty special forces troopers stood behind him. Seeing no movement for a long time, he whispered,
"Marshal..."
Celia raised a hand to silence him, then eyed the two guards flanking the doors:
"—Open them."
The guards were both young. Those selected to stand watch at the parliamentary tribunal were typically well-bred, handsome youths; personal valor mattered less. Compared to these blood-soaked special forces fresh from the jaws of death, the guards had no presence at all. Trembling, teeth gritted, they clung to the doorframes:
"Y-You can't go in..."
Celia asked,
"I have a congressional summons. I'm here as the defendant for the tribunal. Why can't I enter?"
The guards exchanged panicked glances. After a moment, the younger one mustered some bravado:
"P-Parliament rules: no weapons allowed inside! M-Marshal, please surrender your weapons!"
It was a quick-witted excuse. Celia smiled faintly and actually unholstered his pistol and drew his saber, tossing them over.
"Better?"
The youth never expected the marshal to actually disarm. Caught off guard, he fumbled the gun and blade like hot potatoes, unsure whether to hold or drop them. Finally, cradling them, he stammered:
"T-The people behind... can't enter either! The summons is only for you. Y-You must... Y-You must..."
His voice quavered louder in the weapon-lined corridor, on the verge of collapse without the doorframe to hold him up.
"Marshal?" Kareyan murmured.
Celia caught the menace in his tone but merely shook his head, turning mildly to the guard:
"These men can wait outside, but per parliamentary rules, general officers may bring an adjutant to assist in defense. So General Kareyan will enter with me... Here's the summons. Open the door."
—Truth be told, the door had no lock or mechanism; a gentle push would open it. Even if the parliamentarians had barricaded it with desks and chairs, any special forces trooper could blast it open with a shoulder cannon, sending the whole panel flying with chunks of wall. Besides, for all their age and frailty, the parliamentarians wouldn't stoop to such open defiance.
But Celia insisted the guards open it for him.
Disarming outside, guards opening the door—that was the most formal, most solemn ritual of a parliamentary tribunal. The Alliance Marshal had conquered the entire Congress Building, cannons blazing right into the heart of government. Yet at the final step, he insisted on entering like a true defendant, adhering to protocol to the letter.
The guards trembled on the brink of tears.
"Hurry up!" Kareyan glanced at the marshal's expression and snarled at the guards:
"Stand tall! Open the damn door! Don't be such cowards!"
The shout rattled them to the core. The two eighteen- or nineteen-year-olds crumbled, fumbling desperately with the door after a shaky pause. The heavy paulownia doors were unlocked, creaking open slowly with a screech that tensed all forty special forces troopers in the corridor like a battle horn!
But Celia raised a hand to halt them:
"Kareyan, with me."
Celia strode toward the half-open heavy doors. Kareyan glanced back at his men, hesitated briefly, then followed.
·
Firing hadn't fully ceased; explosions rumbled from below, sporadic gun battles flaring and fading throughout the building, sending faint tremors through the floor that shook hearts as well.
The heavy doors thudded shut behind them.
The vast hall below the steps brimmed with densely packed parliamentarians. Seats were in disarray, faces pale with lingering shock—they'd clearly endured a fierce scuffle moments ago. A lone shoe, a tie, a mangled watch crushed underfoot lay on the steps, hinting someone might have tried to flee this way, though more likely they'd been blocked.
Across from them, over forty purple-robed senior parliamentarians sat at the judgment bench, all advanced in years, some with snowy beards and hair. Their faces showed less raw fear, just wary glares tracking Celia as he ascended step by step. Finally, Chief Douglas Konsetlin rose slowly and intoned,
"You've finally arrived, Marshal Celia."
Countless eyes fixed on the white-uniformed marshal, but he ignored Douglas, turning instead to chat casually with Kareyan:
"Have you been here before?"
Kareyan shook his head:
"Only to the upper house for meetings. Never since it was built... No tribunals in the fifty years since the capital moved. This hall's probably seeing its first use."
"—First use." Celia paused, then smiled:
"Take a good look. This is the real battlefield. All that smoke and blood you just went through? Mere appetizers. What faces you now is our fight—the death match deciding the Alliance's future course and power division."
He mounted the final step, standing before the judgment bench. Nearby, Speaker Marcus lurched to his feet in agitation on the defendant's stand but was swiftly pressed back by guards.
Douglas said impassively,
"Was all this necessary, Marshal?"
A towering bench separated them, red carpet stretching underfoot, the Alliance emblem—a majestic golden eagle clutching a scroll—looming overhead. Celia surveyed the room, his gaze sweeping fearful and hateful faces in the distance before settling on the stern rows of purple robes, locking onto Douglas.
"Looks like the speaker replacement vote's already yielded results? The Konsetlin family, who led the Alliance surrender fifty years ago, finally reclaims the top seat. I should offer you my sincere admiration, Douglas. Imperial autocracy or the Free Systems Federation might not bend to your tricks, but in the Alliance, you're a natural-born politician."
Celia's lone voice echoed through the lofty hall, tinged with amusement. Douglas clenched his jaw, expression unchanging:
"The Alliance people chose me in this crisis—"
But Celia cut him off, glancing intrigued at the hovering display:
"Brandt Finger: commissioned major general upon the Alliance defeat fifty years ago, promoted to full general ten years back for capital defense merits. Elected Ministry leader with over ninety percent, granted marshal rank—"
The named Brandt Finger rose shakily, a tall middle-aged man striving for composure, though twitching cheeks betrayed his dread:
"Marshal..."
Celia raised a hand, and his voice vanished as if gagged.
"Francis Enfield: from an Alliance dynasty family, didn't enlist until after the capital shift under his uncle the Army Commander. Racketing up merits the next year for rapid promotions; seventy-three percent elects him Army major general... Howard Ragnar: likewise noble-born, rescued key officials post-defeat and orchestrated retreats, eighty percent for Eighth Legion overall command... Joseph Carter, ex-MP captain, recommended by parliamentarians to colonel and key Ministry commander, eighty percent to replace Kareyan as Radiant Legion deputy commander..." Celia shook his head regretfully.
"Sorry, Colonel Joseph. The Military Police are all under arrest for multiple violations."
Joseph Carter shot to his feet:
"How dare you—!"
"I dare." Celia waved him down dismissively:
"You're irrelevant here, Colonel Joseph. Sit quiet and still. Once I get my desired election results, gentlemen, you can all go home safe."
The ex-MP captain stood rigid for a moment before sinking back silently.
Panic gripped the hall; all candidates betrayed unease.
Though loath to admit it, the truth stared them down: these officers elevated after the First Galactic War via bloodlines, connections, and factional scraps couldn't match the steel of those who'd campaigned with Celia pre-war. Clinging to Parliament versus rising on battlefield glory were worlds apart—especially with the bloody blade now at their throats. Backroom deals and patrons meant nothing.
Douglas shot a hard glare at the candidates; all averted their eyes. He sighed inwardly in frustration, turning darkly to Celia:
"Your 'ideal' results wouldn't be keeping Marcus as top speaker, would they? And you, who led the Imperial forces here—think you can stay Alliance commander?!"
He slammed the desk, his furious accusation booming:
"Utterly preposterous! Everyone saw what happened in the hall that day! To cling to power, you cut a deal with the Empire, even luring their fleets overhead to sabotage Alliance-Dark Star Hall ties!—Didn't you know how dangerous that was? The entire government nearly collapsed!"
Celia regarded him calmly. Douglas shook his head vehemently:
"You treat the Alliance's safety like a game... We can't accept such a man leading the military. The people won't stomach a traitor colluding with the Empire! Marshal Celia, submit your resignation at once, or as acting speaker, I'll invoke full parliamentary authority to remove you!"
—BANG!
A deafening gunshot halted the tirade. Parliamentarians shrieked and recoiled; the bolder ones glanced fearfully to see Kareyan behind Celia holstering his pistol, cool as if he'd merely popped a balloon.
"Don't intimidate the voters, Kareyan." Celia said mildly.
"I'm counting on these fine citizens for their sacred ballots. What if you scare them to death?"
He strode steadily to the candidate seats. Several blue-blood hopefuls rose trembling, backing away instinctively. Ex-MP captain Joseph gritted his teeth, refusing at first to yield—until even vice-marshal candidate Brandt Finger scrambled aside. Swallowing rage, Joseph stood.
If recorded, the scene would've been comical: these cutthroat rivals scattering like vultures from carrion, too panicked even to block. A few purple robes half-rose to berate but choked on their words, hands falling limp.
Celia took his place at the candidate dais, facing the motley parliamentarians. Not towering, not bombastic, yet his low, resonant voice filled the hall, each word hammering hearts:
"Gentlemen, the Ministry now fully controls the Congress Building. The ground beneath your feet belongs to my soldiers. These warriors survived the First Galactic War's harshest fronts—the Alliance's sole veterans of true carnage still in service. Not like those who earned merits rescuing officials or managing retreats."
"I stand here as the Ministry's power eclipses Parliament's for the first time in nearly a millennium, seizing mastery of the Alliance regime. I could drag you all to cells now, unearth your dirty secrets, and turn you into Ministry puppets forever. Or you can cast your sacred votes, choosing your own paths forward."
"I once believed the current system alone embodied the Alliance spirit. Facts proved you led it to ruin. Yet I still trust democracy—that a military autocracy elected democratically best matches the people's will. So: revote now. I'll watch until you deliver results the Ministry accepts."
Silence like death gripped the tribunal. Celia pressed refresh at the dais; the hovering screens wiped clean of all tallies.
Expressions defied description.
This was the Ministry baring its fangs at Parliament for the first time—past clashes before Chenqiao Mutiny or during the Galactic War resolved via Celia's concessions. So many forgot: the Ministry was a monolithic autocracy. Parliament had infiltrated much over fifty years, but never touched its core.
"...You won't relinquish power, Celia..." Douglas whispered hoarsely, icy:
"You want to rule the Ministry like fifty years ago. But it's impossible..."
Celia turned.
"Oh, you refuse to revote?"
His rising inflection held no threat or query—more like: Enough games, vote already.
Douglas narrowed his eyes, glaring coldly, hunting for any flicker of panic in Celia's calm facade. Seconds later, he gave up.
"I will vote." Douglas enunciated.
"But not for you—"
"Because you're an Omega, bonded to the Empire's Emperor Heinrich. The military will never obey you."